Prelude to MW2: Stories of the One Four One
by thedeanmachine
Summary: This is a story about TF 141 before the traumatic and destructive events of MW2. Follow Captain MacTavish, Ghost, Roach, and the rest of the Task Force as they attempt to stop an Irish madman from starting a global terror war.
1. Chapter 1

"A Special Place in Hell"

Cancun, Mexico

Day One, 0120 Hours

"Be advised, I have a visual on the target. He's at the bar. Royce, your three o'clock."

Captain Soap MacTavish sat at the back of the crowded club, his back against the wall. He sat completely still except for his piercing eyes, which shifted subtly from the target to one of his team members, Royce.

Royce, one of the only Canadian-born members of the One Four One, stood amidst a crowd of inebriated college students at the bar. Upon his arrival, the man had quickly struck up a conversation with one of the students leading a particularly large horde. Now, four hours, and possible gallons of tequila, later, he fit right in with them.

"Royce copies all."

The target, a Caucasian man, was about six feet tall and extremely skinny. He had a shock of orange hair, left a bit shaggy. The guy was in his late twenties, a little older than Soap himself.

Although the target looked lanky and a bit clumsy, MacTavish knew better. Appearances were deceiving, and the young Captain knew from experience not to judge a man by his build.

"Royce, watch him. Don't get too close. We don't want to spook the little muppet."

"Got it."

MacTavish shifted his gaze around the club, to the various other 141 members posted throughout the establishment. Roach was just outside the door, smoking a cigarette, watching the street. Meat was upstairs, entertaining a few scantily clad women.

MacTavish frowned. He was sure the young soldier was focusing more on the chest of the girl across from him then on the mission, and he harshly whispered, "Oi, Meat, get yer head outta yer arse."

He watched, with some degree of amusement, the young Sergeant jump as the voice of his Captain came through his earpiece. "Sorry, sir."

The other 141 guys- Rocket, Chemo, Scarecrow, Ozone, and Rook - were spread out, all, for the most part, looking like drunk college students on Spring Break. Ghost, Toad, and Archer were sitting in a Chevy Suburban behind the club, watching for incoming intel on the mission and getting ready to deploy if things went south.

MacTavish chose his spot in the club for two reasons- one, the corner booth he was in provided good overwatch on the bar. Two, he liked, no, needed, his back to the wall. It seemed to be a psychological thing, ever since that day on the bridge when Bravo Team had been all but eradicated.

"Hey, cutie, we saw that you were a bit lonely," said a female voice.

Three young girls in too-short skirts and too-tight tops had shuffled over to MacTavish's table, and were now in the process of giggling at the huge biceps and rough, masculine, _cute_ face glaring at them.

"Not interested, ladies. Please move along."

MacTavish stared up at the three girls and their sudden change from cutesy-tootsie college girls to drunk, angry swamp monsters. They obviously had never been rejected before. Of course, they were attractive, but MacTavish had no time for their antics.

They slowly walked away, one of them being supported by her two friends.

MacTavish watched them go and smirked. "Completely shit-housed," he chuckled.

His thoughts were suddenly snapped back to reality when he heard loud voices coming from the bar. He turned his head just in time to watch Carrot-Top punch a husky black dude in the face at the bar.

At which point, Mr. T, as MacTavish quickly nicknamed him, recovered and stalked towards a slowly backing away Carrot Top. "Royce, secure the target, now, move on him and get him out!"

Royce suddenly stopped the fake stumbling and struggled to escape the huge crowd of students at the bar. MacTavish saw the problem and quickly rose, advancing towards the fight, saying into his earpiece, "Team, move in and secure the target. Rocket, secure the kitchens in the back."

"Rocket copies all."

MacTavish was halfway across the dance floor when suddenly Carrot Top pulled a .45 and emptied three rounds into Mr. T's chest. "Shit!" yelled Royce as he finally jumped free, pulling his USP from his waistband.

The rest of 141 descended on the scene like buzzards, with Rocket, Glock 18 drawn, sprinting towards the kitchens, and Royce tackling Mr. T.

Chemo, Scarecrow, Ozone, and Rook moved quickly to surround the bar and cut Carrot Top off, but the tall man had somehow gotten in with the screaming crowd moving for the front door. MacTavish sprinted for the crowd and yelled, "Roach! Chase him, he's advancing into the street!"

"Got him, I'm in pursuit, south down Avenue 10!"

MacTavish took off running from the club, .45 drawn, down the street. Further ahead, he could see Roach, and in front of him, the target.

"Royce! Take care of the victim, get him to the 'Burban out back! Same for the rest of you!"

The target suddenly cut down an alley going right, past a few startled pedestrians. Roach followed suit, hooking a right into the narrow passage. It was dark and stunk of garbage, but the young Sergeant pushed as much effort into his stride as possible, quickly gaining on the target. As he emerged from the alley, Carrot Top stumbled on the curb- which gave Roach the perfect opportunity to slam the full weight of his 175 pound frame into the lanky man. Roach went more for his legs, and definitely heard one snap as he put Carrot Top into the pavement.

MacTavish quickly caught up to the scene, and steadied his .45 at Carrot Top's mass as Roach zip-cuffed him.

"Bloody well done, Sergeant. Great tackle, if I do say so myself."

"Which you do, Captain. Thank you."

The two exchanged a quick chuckle as Roach heaved the defeated man onto his feet. MacTavish took one look at his leg, and the splintered femur punching through the skin, and pressed his finger to his ear. "Ghost, we need a pickup, Avenue 11."

"Wilco, Captain. I'm on my way."

Within the next minute, the Suburban turned the corner and screeched to a halt in front of the two operators. Rook and Ozone piled out of the back and loaded in the target. Roach rode shotgun while MacTavish hopped in the back.

"Ghost, get us to the hotel, pronto."

On the ride there, Roach realized that Mr. T wasn't in the SUV with them. "Royce, what happened to the black man?"

"He didn't make it; I got him out and dumped him in the rubbish out back. Why?"

"Just wondering what the bloody hell he was doing with ol' numpty back there."

Ghost answered this question for Royce. "Oh, we'll find out, Roach. Not a doubt in my mind, mate."

The target scoffed. "You'll get nuthin outta me, you hear? You fucksticks won't get a scrap of information."

Archer was far from intimidated. "Oh, the wanker speaks, does he? Let's see how well you can insult us in that cute Irish accent when we've pulled each of your teeth out, eh?"

MacTavish grinned. "Easy, Archer. We don't want him making a mess of himself all over the back of the SUV."

When the Suburban pulled up in front of the Hotel Costa del Mar, Archer and Toad quickly got out first with their M4A1 assault rifles drawn. Nobody was in the street anyways, so they weren't as worried about creating a commotion as much as they were protecting the target.

Next out was Meat, now brandishing a Mossberg 500 shotgun, and Scarecrow, carrying an MP5k, who both ran ahead to make sure the path to the room and the room itself was secure.

MacTavish, Rook, Royce, and Ozone came out with the target and climbed the stairwell to the room.

Rocket, Chemo, Ghost, and Roach took the Suburban around back to the small parking lot. After parking, the four got out and took the back way up to the second floor, where the room was.

The room was the largest in the small hotel, the honeymoon suite. It seemed ironic, considering the task at hand and the name of the room they had to complete it in.

By the time the four had opened the door to the room, it was only MacTavish, Royce, Ozone, and the target inside. The others had gone off to separate rooms or other spots to begin overwatch on the hotel for the night.

"Rocket, Chemo, get to your posts, please. Thanks, guys. Good job tonight."

The two left, leaving MacTavish, Royce, Ozone, Ghost, Roach, and the target. The man was bound to a chair in the middle of the room.

MacTavish was straddling a backwards chair in front of him, and Ghost quickly moved to the kitchenette, where he began to pull out a car battery out from underneath the sink. Ozone and Royce sat on the couch, and Roach moved a chair next to the door, where he picked up Meat's Mossberg 500 and stood guard.

Ghost set the battery down on a small tray table next to the target and said to MacTavish, "Ready when you are, sir."

"Affirmative," MacTavish said, pointing at the man. "You are Robert "Robby" McMenehan, are you not?"

The man sat silently, staring intensely at the laminate floor tiles.

"Listen, mate, this could go easily, or it could be a bloody pain in the arse. It's your choice. The man in the mask does not mess around."

"Oi! Can't you get it through your thick English skull that I ain't tellin' you nothing? Piss off!"

"Ok then, mate. Have it your own damn way. Ghost, make him talk."

Ghost quickly rolled up his sleeves and took a pair of jumper cables attached to the battery. "There's a reason why your chair is metal, dumbass," Ghost said as he clamped them to the legs.

The Irishman's eyes only had time to slightly enlarge as he realized that he was completely screwed. Thousands of volts coursed through his body until Ghost detached a cable.

"You'll…. Have to….. D-D-D-Do better than-than-than- that, you knob slobbers."

MacTavish laughed a little at this, but suddenly he rose and kicked the chair away. His fist shot out and connected with McMenehan's jaw, causing a crunch and making blood flow freely down the man's chin. The Captain punched him about fifteen more times, all square face hits, creating massive trauma around the man's eyes and nose. His cheekbones were quite obviously shattered and his nose obliterated; the man's breathing became ragged sounding, and every time he exhaled a gurgling sound emitted from his nose.

McMenehan, sweating and bleeding, began to sob quietly.

Ghost said, "Had enough, mate? It can end at any time. Just tell us who provides the money for the ordnance and supply shipments to the Irish nationalists."

The room was again silent, and MacTavish turned away, frustrated and sweating. Roach could clearly see his hands behind his back, clenched so hard they were white. The young operator blinked and looked over at Royce and Ozone, who were both nervously fidgeting with the pistols in their hands.

"Sir. Why don't you go take a breather? I'll have one of these guys take your place and you can go calm yourself a bit."

"No. I'll be fine. Don't worry about it, Simon."

"Whatever you say, Captain."

The Irishman was so beaten that he hadn't paid attention to any of this. After a few awkward moments of silence (albeit the Irishman's ragged breathing) MacTavish suddenly pulled his .45 from the hip holster on his leg. He switched off the safe, and turned around.

Roach swallowed the lump in his throat and looked down at the Mossberg. He knew the part that came next. And he hated this part, every single time.

Ghost took a step back. "Sir…."

MacTavish's eyes were dark as he took the pistol and screwed in a silencer. He turned around and rammed the black pistol into McMenehan's knee. His voice was low and intimidating.

"Listen to me, you slimy bastard. You're going to tell me who's supplying the terrorist organization known as the Irish Arm. You're also going to tell me who's leading the entire bloody thing, and what their next planned attacks are. If you don't, I'm going to continue make you bleed until you talk."

The Irishman's reply was short and sweet. "Piss off," he said.

MacTavish winked and grinned at the ma n, and whispered, "Ok then," and pulled the trigger.

His right leg jerked as the round disintegrated his kneecap. There was a spray of blood angled down onto the floor underneath the chair. McMenehan let out a small yelp, but quickly recovered, moaning. MacTavish quickly switched to the man's left knee, blinking and whispering, "Tell me what I want to know. Now. "

The man finally relented and moaned, "Fine. The supplier's name is Roland Rischev, a Georgian arms dealer. He's merely a merchant; he doesn't partake in any actual attacks."

"Oh, how noble of him," Royce chimed in from the couch. Ozone chuckled and leaned over to whisper something in Royce's ear. After a few moments, they both laughed out loud and turned back towards the gruesome scene.

Ghost said, "Robert. Why did the Arm choose Rischev as their supplier?"

"He's reliable. And his inventory is bloody huge."

MacTavish was suddenly interested. "Who's the head of the Arm? And what's the next target?"

"The head is an Irishman, born in County Kerry. His name is Patrick Majors, a highly fanatical former SAS member."

"Majors, hmm? Never heard of him."

Ghost chimed in, "Me neither, mate."

McMenehan was quick to speak. "That's why he's such a good leader! He was a low-level demo specialist in 21 SAS until 2004, when he retired as a Color Sergeant."

"Sounds plausible. And the next attack?"

"I remember rumors of the group planning to pack a shite-load of high explosive into an Underground train car somewhere in Northern Ireland. It's to show some sort of force against the Catholic Church in the Northern Country, so I can guarantee that it'll be near a religious establishment. That's all I know, mate."

MacTavish clicked his tongue. "I'm not your mate."

Ghost turned to the rest of the men in the room. "Boys, what do you have to say about this all?"

Ozone was first to speak. "This is way more violent than anything the Arm has ever tried before. Perhaps he's over-exaggerating to make it sound more urgent. Or, perhaps, they're trying to muscle their way into some sort of power position. I'm not sure."

Roach nodded his head, saying, "Well, we know that they are most definitely in league with this Rischev man. Perhaps we should drop by and pay the good chap a visit, eh? He could give us the information on the shipment, let us know what we're up against."

Royce added, "That is what I was going to suggest. I think Rischev is our best bet in getting as much intel on this wanker Majors as well."

MacTavish looked convinced. "Well then, it seems Georgia is our next stop then, eh? But to the matter at hand first. We need to take care of this muppet."

Ghost took the battery off of the table and heaved it under the sink. "We don't take prisoners, and he'd just be a liability. I say we dispose of him. We have a whole rapsheet on this wanker- armed robbery, suspected acts of terrorism, kidnapping of children and clergymen? It seems that the Devil will have a special place in Hell for you, mate."

MacTavish lifted the .45 to McMenehan's chest. "Say hello to him for us, will ye?"

With that, he pulled the trigger, and shot the Irishman in the heart.


	2. Chapter 2, Part I

"The Goods"

En Route to Georgia, 30,000 feet AGL

Day One, 0745 Hours

Sergeant Gary "Roach" Sanderson checked and rechecked his M4A1 Carbine. He had broken it down at least four times since the beginning of the flight in the huge C-17 Starlifter in order to ensure it was clean. He also cleaned all of the attachments for the weapon: tactical flashlight, laser designator, M203 40mm grenade launcher, silencer, and red dot sight. Once he was all squared away, he pulled out a beach hammock from his pack and set it up three feet above the hood of a humvee in the cargo bay.

He screwed in his iPod, and went to sleep. Meanwhile, Ghost, Archer, Toad, Scarecrow, Rook, Royce, Meat, Rocket, Chemo, and Ozone were all spread out in various places- in the two humvees, under them, above them, and next to them. Some were playing cards, others were cleaning weapons. Ghost had his laptop out.

MacTavish was up in the actual seating area, briefing a few new arrivals- reinforcements- to the 141. These men were two former Navy SEALs named Worm and Zach, as well as Roadie and Nomad.

The last thing Roach saw as his eyes drooped closed were the five men climbing down the stairwell from the seating area into the hangar bay.

------------------------XXXXXX------------------------

_4 Hours Later_

"C'mon, Roach, get up, we're almost over the drop zone, mate!" Roadie yelled as the men of the 141 pulled on their jet black raid gear. It may have been mid-70's and sunny in Cancun, but it was around 30 degrees F in Georgia, and t-shirts and jeans were no longer an option. Roach hopped down and packed up his hammock, and pulled his black tactical suit on along with his raid vest. Last was his black watch cap. He slung his M4 across his stomach and strapped on his parachute.

After ten minutes of squirming into their gear, the team gathered near the back end of plane and waited for the ramp to drop.

The jumpmaster, a young USAF Lieutenant, said to MacTavish, "Good luck, sir. You'll need it."

MacTavish shook his hand and replied, "Thank you, Leftenant. I should be saying the same thing to you guys. Good luck dropping this shite off in Iraq."

The two nodded at each other just as the green light flashed above Ghost's head. MacTavish signaled to line up, and the team slowly walked off the end of the ramp. The last man, Rook, saluted the Lieutenant, and jumped into the cold atmosphere.

It was the last time he would ever see any of the members of Task Force 141 ever again.

---------------------XXXXXX-----------------------

_8 Minutes Later_

_Somewhere in Georgia_

Ghost hit the ground relatively softly. It was more the terrain that made him lose his footing and almost get taken away by his parachute.

Cursing, the masked operator quickly stowed his chute and picked up his Bushmaster ACR. It was dead quiet, but the night was lit well by the full moon that hung heavily overhead.

_I won't need my NVG's, then,_ Ghost thought gladly. He was busy checking his sidearm when he suddenly heard a twig snap behind him.

Ghost's blood ran cold as he whirled around and dropped to a prone position in the grass. He leveled his ACR at the forest from which the noise had originated.

He calmly pressed his throat mike and whispered, "Any nearby one four one members, this is Ghost. I am in the grassy field to the north of the forest, does anyone copy? Mark any friendlies with three short bursts from your tac light."

Suddenly, three separate light sources blinked three times, and Ghost breathed a sigh of relief. He slowly rose from the grass, whispering, "Friendly, coming out. Meet me at the edge of the forest."

Upon closer inspection, the three men were Archer, Scarecrow, and Zach. After a brief salutation, the young operator led the three into the forest and towards the rendezvous point.

Zach took point in the small formation, with Archer covering the rear. Ghost took the left flank while Scarecrow had the right.

Suddenly, they came upon two men conversing at the base of the tree. It was Ozone and Meat.

Ghost walked up to the two and nodded at them. "Evening, gentlemen. Shall we get a move on?"

The pair looked up at him and nodded, and the enlarged group moved off as one. Suddenly, Ghost's earpiece crackled to life with MacTavish's ear.

"Ghost, come in, I have collected Worm, Rook, Roadie, Royce, and Toad and we are moving towards the rendezvous point."

"Sir, I am with Ozone, Meat, Zach, Scarecrow, and Archer. We are on the way as well."

"And the rest?"

"Nothing, sir. We'll keep an eye peeled."

"Us too. MacTavish out."

Meat was the first to speak afterwards. "Ghost, what if we can't collect them all?"

Ghost hesitated. "Then we go in after them. We don't leave men behind."

---------------------XXXXX------------------

Roach Sanderson's first instinct upon waking up zip-tied in the middle of a shed with the rest of his captured comrades was to struggle, to scream even. But he knew he had to keep calm and think.

With him were Rocket, Chemo, and Nomad.

Rocket was the first to wake after Roach. He groaned and began to struggle furiously, waking Nomad and Chemo.

Roach was quick to shut him up. "Oi, chill out, you fucking twit!"

Rocket didn't reply, but simply gave up; he slumped down and stared at the floor.

Roach knew that their Russian captors could come in the door at any moment. He had to try to organize a plan to escape as soon as possible. "Anybody got loose knots? Check 'em."

The four checked, and found nothing.

Nomad looked angry. "Fuck. We need to get Oscar Mike ASAP."

Roach said, "Wait, listen, anybody got a sharp edge? Anything?"

Nomad checked and said with resignation, "Of course not. These bastards are pros."

Roach thought quickly. "Fine then, here's what we're going-"

He was cut off by the door banging open and two Georgian men walking in.

The first said with a heavy accent, "Who here is going to tell me why I have armed Westerners dropping into my territory, hmm? I am not here to play games. I will cut your balls off with my bayonet and feed them to you, I kid you not!"

Nomad was the first to speak up. "Oi, come get them, you fat prick!"

The second man was up with a flash, and he jumped in front of Nomad and began to beat him mercilessly.

After a moment the man stopped and Nomad, his face ruined with breaks and cuts, said, "You'll get nothing out of me."

The Georgian turned around and faced towards the door and said, "I know."

With that, he whirled around and drove a dagger into Nomad's heart.

Roach whipped his head away from the scene, and whispered, "You'll pay for that."

------------------XXXXXXXXXXX-----------------

Captain "Soap" MacTavish led his team through the forest silently and quickly. His point man, Toad, was in the process of brushing a branch out of the way when the he stopped and held up his fist.

The entire column of men slowly sank into the waist-high brush on the forest floor until only their heads were exposed. The young captain wove his way from the middle of the column to the front.

"Whaddaya got, Toad?" MacTavish whispered.

"Movement, sir. Possible hostile element to our two o'clock."

The pair sat for a moment, completely still. The silence was broken only by the clicking of the operators' eyelids as they watched the ominous forest.

Suddenly, a twig snapped and three Georgian soldiers, accompanied by two German Shepherds, sauntered into the clearing.

MacTavish raised his fist in order to tell his team to hold their fire. He put his fist down and tapped the man behind him, Worm, who was carrying an M240-Golf light machine gun.

Worm slowly inched his way to MacTavish's side and lay down in the grass. He brushed a bit out of the way of his barrel to give himself a clear line of fire.

The young captain tapped Worm's shoulder twice and counted down on his fingers from five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

On one, the young operator lying behind the ugly weapon tightened his grip and swallowed, eradicating the slack between the stock and his shoulder in order to reduce the muzzle climb of the gun.

MacTavish's index finger dropped just as the group stepped in front of Worm, less than ten feet away.

Worm squeezed the trigger on the '240 and it roared to life, mowing down the patrol. Worm aimed for the legs of the men, which were at the dogs' chest height. The simply came apart as the three men sank to the ground, their legs useless. The last rounds of Worm's salvo hit them in their chests and heads as they hit the forest floor.

Worm released the trigger as MacTavish barked, "Secure the scene and hide the bodies. The Georgians are going to be on our asses within ten minutes."

-----------------XXXXXXXXX----------------

The Georgian men in the shed whipped their heads around at the sudden sound of gunfire. It lasted for about five seconds, and the silence afterward was deafening.

"What was that?" the stockier Georgian said to his counterpart.

"Probably more operators. We should go check it out."

"You stay here," the stocky one said as he hefted an AK-47. "I'll take a few men and see if we can't kill some of these bastards."

With that, he walked out the door and the three remaining operators on the floor could hear shouts in Russian, probably the guy rallying his men.

Their Georgian jailer started towards the door and said, "Your friends are all going to die, and we will make sure to torture you three until you are screaming for your mothers!"

He began to laugh, and he had one hand on the door when Roach said, "You don't know who you're messing with. I can't wait to stare into your eyes and watch the light go out when I kill you myself, you fucking pig."

The Georgian stopped and whipped around, fury in his eyes. He moved his face within an inch of Roach's and began to scream in Russian, his eyes bulging and his face turning beet red.

Roach suddenly screamed back, "Shut the fuck up!"

With that, the British operator bashed his forehead into the Georgian's face, breaking his nose and knocking him out cold. The man crashed down onto Roach, unconscious.

The three were quick to react. Roach groaned and said, "Bastard had a hard head."

While he moaned, Rocket strained against his zip ties to reach the knife on the unconscious man's belt.

After a moment of tension, he said, "Got it."

He took the knife and deftly flipped it in his palm, and started to saw through the plastic handcuffs. Within a moment the zip cuff was cut, and within three minutes the trio was completely free.

Roach, after rubbing his wrists, moved to Nomad's side and examined his corpse, searching in vain for a sign of life. The dead man's face was almost completely gray, his eyes open and vacant. Roach hadn't known the man well at all, but he had felt a certain responsibility for Nomad's wellbeing upon waking up in captivity.

Rocket was searching the Georgian's body and looting any weapons while Chemo bound the man to the only chair in the room.

Roach stared into Nomad's peaceful face. The dull emptiness that consumed him at the moment suddenly rose up in his chest like fire, and he began to shake with fury. He stood up and whipped around, growling, "Get away from him."

Rocket and Chemo paused their work and slowly looked back and forth between the two. Chemo quietly said, "Roach, hang on, this guy could be a valuable source of informa-"

Roach interrupted him by screaming, "I don't give a shit! Move away from the bastard!"

He stalked over to the man and slapped him in the face, once, twice, three times, until the Georgian woke up. His eyes widened as he realized that he was going to die a painful death.

Roach grabbed the man's knife from Rocket and twirled it in his hand, pointing it downward. He slammed it down into the man's thigh, and the Georgian started to scream.

Roach smiled and grabbed the Georgian's throat, tightening his grip until the man began to struggle.

Chemo reacted first. "Roach, stop it, stop it now! I am your superior, now I'm ordering you to stand down!"

Roach ignored him, tightening his grip on the Georgian's throat.

Rocket decided to act after seeing the determination in Roach's face. He backed up, behind Roach, and shakily raised the Russian's pistol to Roach's head.

"Stop it. Now."

As if a flip was switched, Roach let go, and backed away from the man. Rocket lowered the gun and Chemo took charge.

"You two arm yourselves and go outside. Neutralize any threats and try to get a hold on where we are. Try to find our kits, and see if you can raise the rest of the One Four One on comms."

Rocket and Roach wearily stared at each other for a moment and replied, "Got it."

Chemo hesitated, and added, "We're still alive. That means we can still get these bastards for Nomad."


	3. Chapter 2, Part II

"The Goods, Part II"

Somewhere in Georgia

Day One, 2100 Hours

Rocket and Roach stepped cautiously out of the shed. They were back in tactical mode, with Rocket carrying the Georgian's AK-47 assault rifle and Roach opting for the man's pistol.

The shed was on the edge of a field; it seemed the large property was once owned by a farmer but the Georgian militants had long since gotten rid of him and camped in his field.

There wasn't a soul in sight, and the two made their way around the multiple pup-tents set up in almost a perfect semicircle around the shed.

Roach was in the process of sorting through rotten blankets and old Russian porn magazines when he heard Rocket call quietly, "Hey, found our equipment!"

Roach, overjoyed that he didn't need to use the Georgians' outdated weapons, hurried out of the tent and ran over to Rocket, who had a fairly large pile of Special Forces gear at his feet.

Roach yanked the magazine out of the Russian pistol and pulled the slide back, ejecting the 9mm shell that had been in the chamber. He then pulled the slide the opposite way and tore it free, rendering the firearm useless. He tossed the components of the piece of junk into the forest.

"Hey, Rocket, you wouldn't have actually shot me, would you?" Roach asked, his expression blank.

Rocket looked up sharply at this and waited a moment before letting a smile creep slowly across his face.

"Of course not, you wanker."

The two chuckled at this and picked up the gear; with their equipment, they could finally operate like the well trained Special Forces soldiers they were.

They walked back into the shed, where they gave Chemo his kit; it was a welcome feeling to be able to hold the grips of their M4's and ACR's in their hands again.

They talked a bit as they quickly kitted up; however, silence fell once they got to Nomad's G36c and his web gear.

After a moment of staring into the dark pile of clothing and gear, Roach suddenly crouched down and began to take magazines from Nomad's gear and stuff them into his assault backpack.

The team realized what Roach was doing after a couple of seconds, hesitated, and then crouched down next to him to get the rest of Nomad's precious ammunition and weapons.

-XXXXXXXXXX-

Ghost and his five-man team moved efficiently through the forest, keeping clear zones of fire and covering every angle of attack. They were maneuvering through the thick plants and trees well until they came upon a house and a field behind it. The field behind it, they noticed, had a small shed on its border, near the back, and multiple tents set up around the shed.

They did not notice the details of this as much as they did the ten-man militant group moving through the field towards a road they had not noticed before.

Archer, the sniper of the group, laid down on a small rise and stared through the scope of his M-21 sniper rifle. After a moment of silence, he whispered, "Ten men. AK's. One RPD light machine gun. No dogs. No RPG's."

Ghost sat for a tense moment, thinking; he had to formulate a plan quickly in order to take the Georgians by surprise, which he fully intended on doing. After a moment he decided, and pointed to Archer.

"Archer, do you have that road map of the area in your butt pack? I need to find the closest crossroad intersection."

Archer pulled it out and quickly scanned the dog-eared paper. After a moment, he said, "Found it. Down the road a bit, heading north. The militants are closing in on us, Ghost. What are we going to do?"

Ghost looked, and indeed, the patrol was walking in a loose tactical column towards the operators.

"Okay. Here's the plan. Archer, Meat, you two stay here and wait for the group to pass you. Once they pass you, follow at a distance in a field parallel to the road so that you can still provide sniper support during the ambush, because we're going to hit them right at the crossroads down here," and with this he pointed behind them, down the road, "and Zach, Scarecrow, and Ozone, you two fall back with me now, until we get to the crossroads. Once we get there, I want you two to quickly rig some claymores or C-4 putty to a spot that will soften them up nice and good. The patrol tripping the explosives will be all of our signs to open up. Remember, if we do this correctly and conserve ammo, we can quickly eliminate them."

The men grunted their approval, and Ghost began to lead them back from where they came from (apart from Meat and Archer) when he said, "Oh, and also, make sure to silence your weapons. Apart from the explosives, I want no unsuppressed gunfire."

With that, he set off with the three men in tow.

-XXXXXXXXX-

MacTavish and his men had just finished wrapping up Worm's field day with the 240 when he decided to search for the last 141 men.

"All right, guys, listen up. We're going to go double check our bearings and find out any houses or other buildings nearby. Then, we are going to search those properties until we find them."

Toad nodded his head and quietly said, "Sir, what if they are all dead? What if the Georgians have simply murdered them?"

MacTavish's eyes gleamed and he grinned as he said, "Toad, I'm more worried about their captors then them."

They all laughed and the Captain added in, "Rook and I will fan out and search for nearby buildings. Royce is leader while I'm gone. Royce, maintain a perimeter and try to raise our MIA's."

Royce's head snapped upward. "Yes sir."

"Good. Rook, be back from your recon in five mikes."

"Wilco, Captain."

-XXXXXXXXXXXX-

Archer and Meat waited until the column passed them. They sat in the field parallel to the road, and watched the Georgians patrol past. After they had gone by, Meat began to get up.

Archer began to do the same when he heard talking coming from down the road.

"Oi! Get down, you twit!"

He grabbed Meat's ankle and swept the two hundred pound man on his ass.

"What, what's the fucking problem?"

"There's someone coming. Keep it quiet until I've got a visual."

Archer pulled his M21 sniper rifle to bear and peered through the scope. Meat pulled his M16 up from beside him and looked through his red dot sight.

"I've got nothing, mate," said Meat. "Maybe you're getting paranoid or soft."

Archer blinked. "Shut the fuck up, I know I heard something."

Meat began to formulate a comeback when Archer interrupted his thoughts.

"I knew it. Four Georgians, armed to the teeth. They must be a back up to the patrol."

"That or they were late in rolling out of bed this morning."

"Whatever. Screw a silencer in. Get ready to take these fuckers out."

Meat was suddenly all professional. "Copy."

Archer, clad in his ghillie suit, got up and sprinted to a small dirt mound in the middle of the field. He switched his safety off and murmured into his throat mike, "Ready. On my mark."

Meat, not having the advantage of a ghillie suit, sat cross-legged in the bushes in the edge of the field. This shooting stance was a little trick he learned back in Brecon Beacons, England during Selection for the SAS six years before. A United States Marine Corps Force Recon Staff Sergeant had taught the "muppets" a lesson in shooting. The cross-legged stance was rare, but Meat loved it because it was comfortable.

"Wilco," he whispered into his throat mike.

Archer lined up the lead militant's head in his scope. He watched the man talk to his friend, light up a cigarette, and sneeze.

Just as the man finished wiping his nose, Archer inhaled and then exhaled quickly. He squeezed the trigger and a pick cloud appeared behind the man's head, spraying the man behind him. He heard the report of Meat's M16 and watched one more fall.

The operators finished off the last two, and regrouped in the middle of the field.

Archer immediately started to hustle in the direction of the crossroad. Meat followed close behind.

Archer turned his head and yelled to his partner, despite orders to "keep it quiet" from Ghost.

"Meat, we need to hustle! I don't think we'll make it in time to give support if they need it!"

-XXXXXX-

Ghost and his three-man element quickly reached the crossroads and deployed. Ghost, carrying an ACR, and Ozone, carrying an M4, set up on the right corner in the bushes and Zach, carrying a 240, set up on the left side with Scarecrow, who also carried an M4.

As the three operators screwed in their silencers, Zach began to set up the bipod on his machine gun. However, Ghost noticed and hissed, "Silencers or no."

Zach hesitated, swore under his breath, and drew his US Navy SEAL- issued SOCOM Mk. 13 USP, a .45 caliber handgun designed especially for combat situations where longer weapons weren't used.

He screwed in the silencer and ran to the road leading into the intersection. He quickly took four bricks of C-4 putty and molded them to the ditches running parallel to the road. He poked a radio transmitter into each brick and set them to the correct setting. He then pulled out the detonator and ran back to the bushes.

"In place, Simon," he said, settling into the grass.

"Good. Archer, Meat, status?" he said into his earpiece.

"Ghost, the militants should be arriving in tee-minus one mike. They're hustling, Ghost. Don't miss your opportunity to blow the charges or they're going to overrun you. We'll provide sniper support."

"Copy. Team, stand by. Forty-five seconds."

Zach prepped the detonator, and flicked the safety off of his sidearm. With its silencer attached, it was extremely long- possibly as long as the hand guard of an M-16; the weapon was quite large compared to its smaller sister, the H&K USP.

The team waited in silence for fifteen seconds, without even the sound of breathing emerging from the operators. Ghost sat for what seemed to be an eternity.

Zach realized he was holding his breath and exhaled just as the first hostile entered the killzone. He knew from training that he was to wait until the end of the column passed the first charge in order to achieve a "trapping" effect on the column. There were ten men in the group, he knew, so he counted them off.

Everything seemed in slow motion for the former SEAL; it took a long time for the last soldier to saunter through the gap, smoking a cigarette. Zach breathed in and noticed the last man was carrying the machine gun in the group.

_Good,_ he thought, as he squeezed the button on the detonator.

The last three men in the column disappeared in a fireball, and the next two flew forward, their clothing on fire. The first five were quite obviously shocked by the explosion, but surprisingly recovered quickly; they took knees and raised their weapons.

Ghost, Scarecrow, and Ozone opened fire, and two of the men went down immediately, their chests stitched with rounds.

Zach lined up his sights on the first man in the column, and pulled the trigger. The huge pistol bucked, and a round drilled into the man's neck. Zach followed up his first shot with two more consecutive shots to the man behind him, knocking him to the ground. The last man realized he was done for and got up to run, but he only ran about three steps before the loud shot of an sniper rifle cracked and the man's head burst, sending visceral brain matter spraying into the mud. The man fell to his knees, and then onto his face.

The four operators fanned out into the crossroads and checked the scene; as Zach unscrewed the silencer on his sidearm, he came upon the man whom he had shot in the neck. The man was still alive; gasping and coughing blood, he spit onto Zach's combat boots.

The young SEAL couched down and pulled the Georgian up by his right shoulder. He jammed the handgun into the militant's chest and leaned in to whisper into his face.

"Срок окупаемости это сука." _Payback's a bitch._

With that, a shot rang out, unsuppressed, and unaltered; it was this shot that drew Roach, Rocket, and Chemo to Ghost's position less than ten minutes later.

-XXXXXXX-

MacTavish sat on the small rise about 300 yards away from the intersection. He watched, smiling, as his second-in-command, his protégé, set up a textbook ambush. He also watched as the hostile column ambled down the road, about two hundred feet from the intersection.

_These bastards are even dumber than Carrot Top was,_ the young Captain thought. _They walk right into an area that is nothing more than a natural bullseye, and the only thing they're worried about is picking their noses._

As MacTavish watched the men get closer and closer to the crossroads, he readied his M14. He settled his head on the 8x24 scope he had mounted on it and steadied his breathing.

_Remember what Price said, _thought MacTavish. _"Macmillan would be proud."_

MacTavish watched, mesmerized, as a well-planned ambush played out at the crossroads. However, he thought he'd conserve his teammate's ammo by taking out the last militant.

As he watched Zach dispatch the last militant, he got up and called Ghost in on his mike.

"Ghost, come in, do you copy? I have a visual on you. Hold the perimeter until I regroup with my team and fall in on you."

"Copy, sir. Out."

-XXXXXXXX-

The three missing operators, Archer and Meat, Ghost's team, and MacTavish's team finally regrouped on the crossroads. They debriefed, gathered information, checked weapons and ammunition, and decided on a plan of action.

Roach waited until the planning had finished to tell his comrades about the loss of Nomad. MacTavish and Ghost's faces hardened, and everyone was silent. Their Captain was first to speak.

"Nomad was a good man. He was ambitious, reliable, brave, and fierce. He may have been a muppet, but he had the stuff to rise fast in the one four one."

"Aye," murmured Royce.

"I am going to miss him dearly. But the best way to honor his memory is to finish the job, or he will have died in vain. Correct?"

A collective "Yes, sir" was heard from the group.

Roach was next to speak. "Sir, I used my thermite grenade to torch the shed. It's the best warrior's burial I could think of."

MacTavish nodded. "All right, then. Let's get on with it."


End file.
